


Dirtywhirl

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur discovers his feelings, Arthur goes down on that woman, Belly Dancing, Eames Forges a Woman, F/M, Happy Ending, Het Set, M/M, Obsessive Arthur, Oral Sex, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Arthur doesn't think much of Eames until he sees Eames forge a woman, and then Arthur can't seem to get her out of his head.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceaxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/gifts).



> This fic was requested by oceaxe. She wanted it to be based on the song Dirtywhirl by TV on the Radio.

The thing about Eames is that he’s messy. There’s nothing about him that isn’t arrogant. He’s obnoxious in everything from his clothing to his work, and he’s far too brash to ever be considered professional. It took Arthur all of twenty minutes on their first job together to see past his posturing to the ineptitude underneath. That was over a year ago, and not much has changed. Dom insists on hiring him because he’s too wrapped up in his own ego to see how ungraceful and shoddy Eames’ work ethic really is.

  


This is the fourth time Arthur’s been overruled and is stuck waiting for Eames to show up so he can fill him in on the job. He’s triple checking the mark’s finances when Eames comes strolling in at half past three, smelling like cheap cologne, airplane whiskey, and the lamb kebab he’s got in his hand, grease dripping down his wrist as he tears into the meat with his stupid, perfect crooked teeth.

  


He grins at Arthur, a speck of spice lodged along the gumline of his right canine. Arthur ignores him, barely noticing that Eames’ shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest and his tasteless tattoos are peeking out from beneath a patch of sparse hair. They’re here to do a job and no amount of Eames sitting on the edge of his desk to pick and tease at Arthur’s calm is going to change that.

  


He gives up and goes to pout in the corner when Arthur simply hands over the dossier on the forge. Arthur considers it the first step in his ultimate victory when Eames plugs into the PASSIV fifteen minutes later. The mark is a habitual gambler in the gaming dens hidden in and around Marrakech, and when he’s winning he likes to reward himself with the company of the bellydancers who help keep the highrollers coming back. He’s never seen Eames forge a woman and to honest, he can’t imagine how it can be done. The woman they need isn’t some secretary behind a desk, or a mistress waiting between the sheets, Eames needs to  _ dance _ . In just three days he needs to pull together something actual bellydancers spend years perfecting. 

  


Arthur should be in the dream with Eames, making sure he’s on track and this whole thing isn’t going to blow up in their faces, but he can’t. This is going to be his moment of vindication and he’s not going to stand in the way of that. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that Eames is going to fail, that there isn’t a feminine urge in his body, and he’s not going to pull this off. Arthur is not proud of his need to see Eames flop, but his ego wants what it wants, and once Eames screws this up, Arthur won’t have to waste any more time thinking about how utterly gauche he is.

  


The day of the extraction Dom intercepts the mark at a local bath house, luring him into a private sauna by playing the gullible rich American who happens to be looking to lose a little money to some locals, just for the experience. Arthur’s shirt sticks to his skin in the dense humidity and if he never has to see Dom in nothing but a towel again, it will be too soon. Eames is wearing a long tunic and loose pants and looks cool as a fucking cucumber in the suffocating heat. Arthur doesn’t care one way or another, but he may resent the fact that Eames is barely sweating and inserts the cannula a little carelessly, making Eames wince. It’s a cheap thing to do, he knows that Eames dislikes needles, but that doesn’t stop the satisfaction he gets when Eames frowns up at him.

  


The dream itself is smoky and dark, rich incense wafting through the air to mix with the dry coal smell of hookahs. The lantern light is bright, but the rugs on the floor and the fabric on the walls give the room a close, secluded feel. Arthur feels a little like he’s been transported back in time until Dom walks in with the mark, dressed in an obnoxious flowered shirt and khakis. He’s wearing fucking Birkenstocks on his feet and Arthur wants to smother him with one of the decorative pillows that are everywhere.

  


They stop at Arthur’s table, sitting when he nods, and a dealer appears from the ether. Two more ‘players’ join them, serious-faced projections who seem to mistrust Dom’s easy smile and loud laugh. They play three rounds of go fish because Dom never could grasp how to gamble with anything but their lives, and Arthur loses with him because he spends the entire time eyeing the women in the room, wondering which one is Eames. 

  


Someone bangs a gong and a hush settles over the crowd, the projections turning as one to a small stage at their end of the room. The music start slow, a violin mournful and rich, and Arthur hears the jangle of the dancer’s costume before he sees her. She steps out of the shadows, her back to the room as the percussion comes in with a beat here and there, it’s a tease, and Arthur can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the woman’s back as she moves. She’s a long line of motion, making sure every eye in the room is on her before she turns around. 

  


Arthur nearly falls out of his chair when she does, because it’s so obviously Eames. He has no idea how he knows, beyond the fact that this was Eames’ role, to catch the attention of the mark, to be ready to whisk him away when Arthur calls him out for cheating, but there’s something about the woman’s body, every inch of her copper skin that telegraphs  _ Eames _ . The music speeds up and the woman’s sinuous, fluid movements evolve into something wilder. Her hips follow the staccato beat of the drums, moving so fast Arthur can barely keep track, and he knows he’s supposed to be playing a part, but he’s in shock, lost to the entrancing forge Eames is wearing, and wondering how it’s at all possible.

  


How can the rough, masculine, philandering ass, the one who is often coarse and quick to anger, also inhabit the body of the voluptuous goddess dancing on that stage? And why is Arthur so fucking turned on? He’s gay, he knows he is. He’s only ever slept with one woman and they’d both come away from it accepting that members of the opposite sex just weren’t for them. But this woman, this beacon of grace and femininity in front of him makes him want to fall to his knees and worship. To commit himself to her mercy and beg to taste of her flesh. 

  


The woman kicks out, her leg high and glimmering for an instant before it’s hidden once more by her draping costume. The shiny baubles around her thick waist and decorating her chest catch the light and send rainbows dancing around the room as she bends backwards, shimmying to the fast strumming of the qanun until her entire torso looks like rippling water. Arthur’s half hard in his pants and his mouth is watering. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on the woman’s skin and he wants to lick it off. Want to savour the salty flavour of her on his tongue. Wants to find out if she tastes sweeter between her sturdy thighs.

  


Her long, dark curls whip around her head as she whirls, and when she stops she looks right at Arthur and smirks. Dom kicks him under the table and Arthur realizes he’s half out of his chair. He uses the moment to throw down his cards and shout at the mark, accusing him of cheating and rather unfairly bringing his grandmother’s honour into question, but Arthur’s a little out of his mind with lust and can’t be expected to follow a script. He pulls his gun and Dom stumbles away from the table, dragging the mark with him towards the stage. Arthur follows them, a baffling sense of jealousy bursting in his chest when the woman grabs the mark by the wrist and  ushers them backstage. He knows Eames will lead them left so Arthur goes right, stumbling out onto the busy market street and blinking hard against the glare of the sun. He finds a secluded street and shoots himself out of the dream.

  


When the clock runs out Arthur can’t even look at Eames, he lets Dom see to his cannula and busies himself propping the mark up against the tiles so he won’t fall and bash his head in on the marble floor before he wakes up. He packs up the PASSIV and slips out as soon as Dom confirms they got what they came for. Then he runs. He puts six thousand miles between himself and the job and Eames’ forge.

  


It takes a week before he gives in and tracks Eames down. Seven days with the memory of the way the woman moved, every turn and spin, every shiver of her ribcage burned into his brain. One hundred and sixty-odd hours wondering how Eames did it. How he transformed himself into something Arthur never knew he wanted. Over a hundred and sixty thousand breaths spent choking on his desire.

  


Eames is in Kenya. He’s got a house on Nyali Beach in Mombasa, because of course he fucking does. He puts in a quarter the hours Arthur does for twice the pay and it makes something juvenile and petty snarl inside Arthur’s lizard brain. He breaks in because there’s no way he’s going to knock on the door and ask Eames to let him in. This isn’t a booty call, it’s a fact finding mission and Eames is to be considered a hostile. 

  


Eames wakes up in the dream, a replica of the gambling den, although a little dimmer around the edges because Arthur doesn’t have time to worry about the details right now. If Eames is surprised to find Arthur standing in front of him, he doesn’t show it. He immediately checks his totem and purses his lips, slipping his hands in the pockets of the trousers he was wearing the day of the job.

  


“Arthur, darling, did you break into my house?” Eames seems more amused than alarmed and it riles Arthur up, makes him want to shove him against the wall, just to get a reaction.

  


“I need to know how you did it.”

  


Eames raises his eyebrows and rocks back on his heels. “How I did what?”

  


“The woman,” Arthur spits. “The dancer. How did you forge her?”

  


“That’s my job, Arthur. Trade secrets and all that. I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you, do I really need to go on?” 

  


“No, that’s not what I-” Arthur stops and takes a steadying breath. Being this close to Eames is setting him off kilter, especially here, where the memory of  _ her _ is so sharp. “She’s nothing like you. I’ve seen you forge before and it was nothing like that. She was different, she was…” Arthur trails off because he knows what the next word out of his mouth is going to be and he won’t give Eames the satisfaction.

  


“She was what? Beautiful? Mesmerizing? Beyond compare?” Eames prompts, looking far too smug.

  


“She was more,” Arthur allows.

  


“Hmm, got you a little hot under the collar, did she, darling?” Eames says, far too perceptive, as usual. “ I didn’t think you swam in those waters.”

  


Arthur’s about to tell Eames that’s none of his business when something occurs to him. “Is that what it is? Is she real? Or based on someone real, I should say. Is that why she felt so genuine?”

  


“She felt genuine because I did my fucking job, Arthur. I’m the best for a reason.” Eames’s body language hasn’t changed, but there’s a warning in his voice that Arthur should know better than to ignore.

  


“But you’re not,” Arthur argues, taking a step back when Eames pulls his fists out of his pockets. “Not always. The other forges I’ve seen have been good, but nothing like her. Not even close. What made her different?”

  


“Is this a performance review now? Why do you care?”

  


“I don’t.”

  


Eames scoffs. “You don’t fly halfway across the world, break into someone’s home, and hook them up to a PASSIV unless you care deeply, petal. Now, why are you really here? Is this a job?”

  


“A what?” Arthur stammers.

  


“A job. Someone’s paid you to find out how I forge, is that it? I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have seen your method as the obvious route. You get points for being direct.”

  


“This isn’t a job, Christ. Do you really think I would do that?”

  


Eames shrugs. “Why not? If others can learn to do what I can do you’d never have to work with me again. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I bet you’re not even getting paid. You’ve taken the initiative and done this yourself.”

  


“Oh my god, I’m not here to learn your secrets! You’re fucking paranoid.” Arthur tells him, collapsing into a chair.

  


“Then why are you here?” Eames asked through clenched teeth.

  


“Because I need to know why she’s different,” Arthur groans, dropping his head into his hands.

  


“She’s not.”

  


“She is,” he insists. “If she wasn’t I wouldn’t feel like this!”

  


“Like what, Arthur?” Eames asks, impatient.

  


“Like I can’t get her out of my mind. Like I need to see her again. Like she’s something I’m fucking missing!” Arthur knows he’s flushed so he keeps his head down. 

  


Eames is quiet for a minute, but Arthur can hear the squeak of his leather shoes as he shifts his weight. Arthur seriously considers shooting himself out the dream and smothering Eames with a pillow so he never has to admit this ever happened, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t actually solve his problem so he just stays where he is.

  


“Do you want to fuck her?” Eames asks, and it sound more like an offer than an inquisition so Arthur raises his head.

  


“What?”

  


“Do you want to fuck her?” Eames repeats, his face betraying nothing of his motives.

  


“I want. I don’t know what I want,” Arthur lies.

  


Eames blurs in front of him and then  _ she’s _ standing there. Dressed in the same crimson and gold, curly, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do.

  


“Shall I dance for you?” she asks, her voice soft but clear, her accent drawing out the consonants.

  


Arthur gapes as her hips start a lazy circle, the jangle of her costume loud in the empty room. This is Eames, he reminds himself, but it’s no use. He’s hooked and he’ll gladly drown if she’s the one holding him under.

  


“I’m gay,” he blurts and her responding smile is coy.

  


“That does not mean you cannot appreciate, yes?”

  


“Yes,” Arthur agrees, holding his breath when her hand runs up his arm to his neck. She dances in front of him, little hip jerks designed to lure him in, and it works. He’s just as caught as the first time, only now he doesn’t have a job to do. Doesn’t have to worry about anything else but getting to the bottom of this mystery. He can take his time, he can do all the things he’s dreamt about since the first time he saw her. He can let himself be burned alive by his desire for her.

  


“I want to taste you.” Arthur looks up at her, waiting for Eames to come back, to change his mind, but she only smiles and runs a hand through his hair.

  


“We need a bed.”

  


Arthur shudders out a breath and lets her draw his head to her stomach. She smells like lemons and fresh sweat and Arthur’s hands grip her waist as the room ripples around them. The tables disappear and a large four post bed materializes where the stage was. The headboard is intricately carved into a honeycomb pattern and there are red and gold bolts of fabric hanging from a ring that’s suspended from the ceiling.

  


She pulls him to his feet, backing towards the bed with a sly smile. She lets go of his hands and when she turns her back to him she’s wearing nothing but a deep red silk robe. She crawls onto the bed, tucking her legs under her while Arthur disrobes. He could dream it all away like she did, but there’s something about the ritual that soothes him. Makes it feel like this is real. 

  


Logically, he knows he’s doing this with Eames, can still clearly see that she is Eames in disguise, and he can’t explain to himself how he can see two such different people at the same time, but by the time his clothes are gone he no longer cares. He needs to do see this through, to find the answers to the questions that plague him, and Eames is allowing this, so Arthur’s not going to stop to second guess himself.

  


“Lay back,” he says quietly, licking his lips when her robe gapes and he can see the heavy swell of her breasts. He joins her on the bed, kneeling at her feet. He runs his palms up her shapely legs, appreciating the strength and flexibility of them.

  


“Yes?” he asks, nudging them wider.

  


“Yes,” she whispers.

  


Arthur peels back the sides of her robe, exposing her thighs and hips, the dark swathe of hair hiding what he’s been searching for. He takes her by the ankles and pushes them up the bed, bending her knees and splaying her thighs, opening her up to him. She’s gleaming and tanned, her lips fading into rose-coloured skin, and Arthur has to stop to appreciate Eames’ attention to detail. 

  


Her legs fall open and Arthur groans. He’s done this before, enjoyed it even, but he gets the feeling this is going to be miles beyond his early fumblings. Somehow she feels like she was made for him, and not in a possessive, archaic way, but in a way that cuts deep into his bones. Like Eames created her to entrap him.

  


She moans when Arthur brushes a finger over her lips, dipping just inside her folds to see how wet she it. He could push right inside her, his cock meeting no friction on his way to her core, but that’s not what he wants. His desire to taste her is as strong as it was in the first dream, so he lays himself out between her legs, rubbing his lips against her soft hair and inhaling her musky scent. She smells a little like Eames does beneath the cologne and the cheap fabric of his clothes. 

  


He can admit here that he’s thought about Eames. About his thick fingers and his crooked smile. He’d be blind not to notice that underneath the hubris and the smarm, Eames is attractive. But he’s never felt drawn to him quite like he is to her, and that doesn’t make sense on so many levels. She is sensual and captivating in ways that Eames has never been. Not in front of Arthur, at least. He looks up at her, at the soft curve of her smile and the way her thumb is rubbing against the second knuckle of her middle finger and suddenly it’s clear.  _ She’s Eames _ . She’s all the little parts of Eames that he keeps locked away. That he saves for people who aren’t in dreamshare, who aren’t untrustworthy, who aren’t Arthur.

  


Except for now. Because Eames is here and she’s here, and Arthur is being told  _ yes _ , and  _ welcome _ , and  _ please _ . 

  


Arthur bows his head and licks at her, his tongue flat and wide, dragging against her hair and skin, then back down so he can do it again. After the first touch, he can’t seem to stop, he plunges his tongue between her folds and groans at the thick, rich taste of her, lapping at her inner lips and swirling around her clit. She’s gasping above him and scratching at his scalp, so he slows down, treating her to little kitten licks until she’s squirming and arching her hips for more. He sink his tongue inside her, a little shocked at how hot she is but aroused all the same. He thrusts into her depths, over and over, and then she’s pulling on his hair, redirecting him higher, so he presses two fingers in, humming with pleasure when she clenches around him. He works his fingers slowly, rubbing in small circles just past her entrance while he sucks gently on her clit. 

  


Her legs make their way to his shoulders, and his world gets dark and warm, blocking out anything but her body under his mouth. She arches up when he lips at her folds, greedy and starving for the juices collecting there. He can’t get enough of the the taste, the way her body quakes when he goes back for more. 

  


“Now, please,” she begs, and her voice is a little deeper, the accent a little off, but Arthur’s aching to make her come, so he ignores it, moving his fingers a little firmer, coaxing her closer to the edge while his tongue dances over her clit, making her cry out. She shakes apart around his fingers and under his tongue and Arthur draws it out until she’s shivering and pulling away. His hand is nearly coated in her moisture and he sucks his fingers into his mouth to savour it. 

  


The timer runs out before they stop panting, and Arthur finds himself laid out in bed beside Eames, who sits up and sticks his arm to so Arthur can deal with the needle.

  


“Get what you came for, then?” Eames snaps, doing a poor job of concealing his erection.

  


“I think so,” Arthur tells him, tossing the lines towards the PASSIV and stretching back out on the bed.

  


“Then leave.”

  


“She’s you,” he says calmly.

  


“Brilliant deduction, Arthur.” Eames says, swinging his feet off the bed.

  


“No, I meant it. She’s  _ you _ . Only, she’s not the you I know. Why is that?”

  


“What are you talking about?” 

  


“The Eames I know is surly and uncouth. He’s not sensuous and soft like she is. He’s not easy.”

  


“Fuck you very much,” Eames says, glaring over his shoulder at Arthur.

  


“That’s not what I meant. You’re not accommodating or open like that. You’re antagonistic. You go out of your way to make my job harder and you know it.”

  


Eames is quiet for a while, staring out at the dark waves crashing on the shore outside the window. He heaves a sigh and pushes himself back until he’s sitting against the headboard, staring down at Arthur.

  


“I am what you expect of me.”

  


Arthur frowns and rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow so he can still see Eames. “What are you talking about? I  _ expect _ you to be professional and attentive. You are neither of those things.”

  


“No, you don’t. You stopped expecting that of me about fifteen minutes after we met.”

  


“You’d hit on my three times by then,” Arthur says, dryly.

  


“Yes, and you discounted me as boisterous and not worth your time,” Eames says quietly, staring down at his hands. “Your mind isn’t an easy one to change.”

  


“Did you even try?” Arthur challenges.

  


“No, I didn’t. I have a bad habit, you see. Of becoming who and what people think I am. Keeps me invisible to them. Keeps me safe.”

  


“You’ve never been invisible to me,” Arthur tells him truthfully.

  


Eames laughs, and when he looks at Arthur, his eyes have gone soft. “I wish I believed that.”

  


“Why don’t you?”

  


“Because I want it too badly. And I’m not the kind of man who gets what he wants, not when it really counts.”

  


“And you want me?” Arthur asks carefully.

  


“Darling, I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you. Before we’d even met. I checked you out when I got Dom’s call. People said he’s gone too far into his own mind to be trusted, but Arthur, Arthur’s the one who keeps the trains running. He’ll keep Dom on track. He’s the one who’ll save your life.”

  


“What was your concensus?”

  


Eames smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners in a way Arthur knows he’s never been witness to before. “People were right. But they forgot to mention that Arthur is also bloody gorgeous and has unreal expectations for those around him. So when you wrote me off I figured it was best to be exactly who you thought I was. Then maybe you’d never know.”

  


“Never know what?” Arthur asks, his pulse pounding.

  


“That I’m crazy about you. That I can’t see anything else when you’re in the room. I thought if I drove you away with the drinking and the macho bullshit, that you’d never want to look beyond the surface.”

  


“Don’t forget the terrible cologne.”

  


“Fuck you, I like that cologne,” Eames tells him primly, unsuccessfully hiding his nerves. His thumb is rubbing his middle finger again and his toes keeps curling against the sheets.

  


“It’s horrible, trust me,” Arthur tells him seriously. “So what changed? Why bring her into it?”

  


Eames laughs, but it’s a weak sound. “I’m tired, Arthur. How I feel hasn’t gone away and I’m tired of you looking at me like I ruin your day. I created her to show you what I want to be for you, even if you’d never know it.”

  


“But I did know. I was struck by her immediately. She was so you, but in a way I never thought I’d see.” Arthur gets to his knees, leaning towards Eames because he needs him to understand. “Eames, at no point did I not see her as you.”

  


“Yeah, right,” Eames huffs and drags a hand down his face.

  


Arthur grabs him by the wrist, pulling until the hand is resting in his lap. “She  _ is _ you. You are her. I knew it a week ago, but I didn’t understand what it meant. Tonight I do. I did.”

  


“Arthur, you don’t have to do this, seriously,” Eames protests, trying to pull his arm back.

  


“No, shut up. Eames, when I was with her just now, I knew I was with you, too. Your burly man act worked, but not as well as you thought it did. You’re fucking brilliant, and you can’t hide that from me. I see it. I see you.”

  


“What does that mean?” Eames asks, giving up on regaining his hand.

  


“It means I knew when I decided to come here that I wanted you. I couldn’t deny it anymore. I’m sorry it took me this long, and I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to hide, but I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

  


“What do you want from me, Arthur?” Eames fingers curl around Arthur’s palm unconsciously and Arthur smiles.

  


“Well, I’d kind of like to blow you. Then in the morning I’ll make you pancakes.”

  


“And then?”

  


“I don’t have another job until next month, so if you’re free we could ruin these sheets. We’ve got the rest of our lives to figure out the rest.” Arthur shrugs.

  


Eames laughs wetly, shaking his head at Arthur like he has no idea what to do with him. “Darling, I never thought I’d underestimate you, but you’ve proven me wrong.”

  


“Is that a yes to the blow job?” Arthur asks.

  


“I’d like to kiss you first if that’s alright,” Eames asks, shyly.

  


Arthur grins. “That sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  
  



End file.
